


Step Into Unfamiliar Waters

by coolbreezemage



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Image, Dancer Dimitri, Dancing, F/M, FE3H Kinkmeme, Fluff and Angst, Team as Family, White Heron Cup (Fire Emblem), accidental crossdressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreezemage/pseuds/coolbreezemage
Summary: Prompt: "I would like to see Dimitri getting chosen as a dancer! Does he have to find a partner to practice with? Is he uncomfortable with how much scarring people can see in the costume? Does he end up in the women's variant by mistake? Up to you, I just want some Dancermitri!"
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Annette Fantine Dominic, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Mercedes von Martritz, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	Step Into Unfamiliar Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the kinkmeme prompters and commenters who encouraged me to write this!

The Professor should have chosen Mercedes. Or Flayn, who had all but begged for the honor. And it was an honor, Dimitri couldn’t deny that, but it was an honor that by all rights should have gone to someone else. 

“I have no talent for dancing,” Dimitri said, shaking his head. “I cannot fathom why she chose me when any of you would do much better.”

Dedue set a plate on the table in front of Dimitri and sat down with his own. “My understanding is that this is a mere entertainment. It is not worth such worry. And besides, I am certain Your Highness will perform admirably.”

That, at least, reassured him a little. Dimitri couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Dedue.” He still had almost no appetite for the meal (that the cooks had put so much work into preparing, he reminded himself), but he picked up his fork and started eating, unwilling to give his friends another reason to worry.

“Dancing isn’t all that different from fighting, I suppose,” Ingrid said doubtfully, piling slices of roast beef onto her plate before drenching the whole thing in gravy. “It requires a lot of coordination and strength.”

Felix snorted. “It’s entirely different. At least when I’m fighting I’m actually doing something worthwhile. Dancing is just about making yourself look pretty for other people, and I have no interest in that faff.”

“Dancing is fun!” Annette insisted. “You get to dress up all pretty and listen to music and have a good time with your friends!”

“I know!” Mercedes added, smiling dreamily. “I think we’re all going to have a wonderful time. Make sure to save a dance for me, Annie!”

“I will!”

Mercedes turned to Dimitri. “It does seem a bit odd that the Professor chose you for the White Heron Cup, Dimitri. But Professor Byleth always seems to know the right thing to do, so I’m sure it’ll work out. Doing the expected thing all the time would be boring, after all!”

If only Dimitri could share that confidence. 

“I’ve never seen you dancing,” Annette said. “I bet you’re good at it. You probably have to learn that sort of thing as a prince.”

“The only thing the boar is good at is killing,” Felix grumbled, earning outraged glares from Annette and Ashe. He was right, and the sooner the others saw it, the better. After what had happened at Remire, after all his disgraceful actions, Dimitri didn’t understand why they hadn’t yet turned away from him. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except for justice. 

Sylvain leaned in close, conspiratorial. “So, what’s our competition?”

Ingrid’s expression matched Sylvain: ready for a challenge. “Well for a start, the Black Eagles chose Dorothea.”

“No surprise there,” Ashe said. “She’s incredible. I saw her practicing in the courtyard earlier.”

“And the Deer chose Hilda!” Annette said with her mouth full.

“Hilda, really?” Sylvain glanced over to the Golden Deer table, where Hilda lounged across two seats, eating from a plate piled high with cakes. “I thought she’d complain about it being too much work or something.” 

“She’s actually really strong. I did some axe training with her the other day and she nearly threw me across the training hall.”

That got Felix’s attention. “That’s because you’re so small and clumsy. You need to be more careful in combat. You should stick to magic.”

Annette glared at him. “Don’t tell me what to do, Felix! I need to learn this! My uncle needs me to carry our family’s Relic…”

The discussion went on, but Dimitri’s focus drifted away from his friends’ debates and back to the mission he’d been assigned. The Blue Lions’ representative in the White Heron Cup… A mere entertainment, Dedue had said. But it was more than that, far more, to the students here. He’d rather fight any number of bandit raids than have his rather poor skill at dancing reflect on his House’s honor. 

He’d had a good teacher, once. He could see her across the hall now, talking to Dorothea, all shining pride and unbowed confidence. But there had been very little time for dancing in Fhirdiad since then.

He truly didn’t want to do this. But the Professor had asked it of him, and he dared not disappoint her. 

***

Shamir knocked on Dimitri’s door later that evening.

“Delivery for you,” she said, pushing a bundle of fabric into his arms.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the glittering, jingling package with a sinking heart.

“Dancer’s costume. You’ll need it for the competition.” She gave him a look that might have been a smirk. “You’ll look good in it. Just don’t push yourself too hard.” And with that, she turned and slipped away down the hall.

From the next door down, Sylvain winked at him. Dimitri ignored it. He closed his door, set aside his schoolbooks, and laid out the costume on his bed. He had to admit it was a beautiful creation, layer upon layer of sheer silk and expensive ribbon, all in silver and Faerghus blues. Far too fine and elegant for him. 

The little pouches tucked away here and there puzzled him at first, until he realized they must be for hiding knives and other weapons. Not a surprise, once he remembered that dancers had once served an important role in battle, inspiring their allies to endure through long battles through the beauty and grace of their performance.

He wanted more than anything to throw it aside, hide it in a cupboard or hand it off to someone more suitable for it, but he couldn't refuse such a gift. There was nothing to do but wear it. 

Just getting it on turned out to be a more difficult proposition than he’d expected. There were a few tense moments where he feared he might have to limp downstairs and beg Mercedes to disentangle him (because there was no chance of him asking Sylvain or Felix for help in this matter), but to his immense relief he eventually figured out all the pins and laces and sashes and the fabric fell in smooth folds across his chest. 

He’d been terrified that he would tear it, but the gauzy fabric was surprisingly strong. The various ornamented belts jangled excessively as he moved, which he supposed was the point of them, but that didn’t make it any less disconcerting. He felt like a cat wearing a bell. Except a cat would likely be far more graceful in a ballroom than he could ever be. He was made for battle; he’d be utterly laughable on stage.

And to make matters worse, the costume left his arms and back and legs bare, exposed. He examined himself in the room’s small, warped mirror, wincing at the familiar sight of scars old and new, of the patches of mottled, tough skin left behind by old burns. Together it was enough to make a mockery of the fine costume. It was terribly vain of him to care such, of course. But he couldn’t let his ruined body disgust the judges and other dancers, damage his House’s chance at victory.

Perhaps he could ask Mercedes to try and cover the worst of the marks with makeup… but no, he realized, fingering the deep blue sashes that trailed from his arms, that would risk staining the costume. And he was fooling himself if he thought that covering the visible signs would keep his friends from learning the truth of him. 

No, he wouldn’t hide away. He’d take this assignment like he would any other task the Professor saw fit to entrust to him, and that meant training.

***

There weren’t many large empty spaces where Dimitri could practice without making a spectacle of himself. The courtyard was out of the question; far too many people walking through, far too many people watching. And the training grounds were in use at all hours of the day. The only place that offered any privacy was the Knights’ Hall, and then only late in the evening when the senior knights were away leading patrols or enjoying themselves in town.

So he pulled on a long coat over the dancer’s costume, put the book of dance forms Ashe and Annette had found for him in the pocket, and headed out to practice until the night grew too cold to stay outside. Fortunately - or not - that would likely be a long time. Blaiddyds were born for cold northern winters. 

For a while, it was no worse than learning a new stance or breaking in a new weapon: a little uncomfortable and strange, but easier with time. But then the diagrams grew ever more complicated and the rhythms harder to keep in his head and he found himself all but tripping over his own feet. He could almost hear how El would have scolded him for that.

And the costume proved even more difficult to get used to. The way the material drifted slowly or swept with purpose depending on how he moved, how the sashes kept him ever aware of his arms, the brush of cold air against too much naked skin that he longed to shield behind metal. 

He had time, he reminded himself. He had time to perfect this art before he had to let anyone see him fumble about like a foal.

He should have known that he wouldn’t be left alone for long.

“Huh, I knew you had a stick up your ass, but I didn’t think it was  _ this _ bad…” Sylvain was leaning against the doorway to watch, the picture of casual confidence and lazy certainty. 

Dimitri bit his lip, let what might have been a sharp retort turn into a sigh instead. “Sylvain, if you have nothing useful to contribute, please leave me alone to practice.”

“Ouch, that’s cold,” Sylvain protested, but he was still grinning. Dimitri didn’t even need to glance up to know that. He could  _ hear  _ it. At least it was Sylvain, and not anybody else. Sylvain knew what he looked like, had seen him often enough in the baths that any modesty would be entirely pointless. And though he’d never admit it and give Sylvain the chance to tease him for it, he trusted him, despite all his foolish behavior and apparent carelessness.

Ignoring him, Dimitri counted out a beat and leapt into a new set, narrowing his focus to moving on the rhythm, getting the footwork right... 

Sylvain laughed. “Listen, Your Highness, you’re never going to get the girl if you’re that stiff all the time.”

Alarm spiked in his chest. “I’m not trying to-” Dimitri started, and then promptly lost count of his steps and paused, arm still held out lamely to his side, ornaments clacking harshly against each other. He glared at Sylvain. “And that is a highly inappropriate suggestion in any case.”

“Sure, sure.” Sylvain sighed. “You’re allowed to like people, you know. You’re not the only guy - or girl, for that matter - who’s got their eye on our Professor. And trust me, Your Highness, you’re a better catch than most.”

That might be true. It didn’t change the fact that the thoughts he sometimes found himself entertaining alone in his bed were vile and wrong. It didn’t change the fact that the very desire was selfish. She deserved better. And he couldn’t be so shortsighted as to promise himself to somebody when he had yet to fulfill the demands of those who had fallen protecting him…

Once again Sylvain’s carefree voice broke into his darkening thoughts. “You look good in that, by the way. You’re going to have a lot of eyes on you at the competition. And a lot of dance offers when the ball comes around.”

Dimitri winced.

“You look like you don’t like that idea.”

The first sensible thing Sylvain had said all evening. Or at least the only claim Dimitri wanted to admit to. “I would… rather not make myself into a spectacle.”

Sylvain snorted. “Isn’t that the whole point of this? Go up on stage, twirl around a bit, gain some admirers, maybe go off with a nice girl or two…” Dimitri hoped his expression said clearly enough what he thought of  _ that _ prospect. “Still not your thing?”

Somehow, Dimitri thought that Sylvain, too, wasn’t as fond of the thought as he sounded. “No, it isn’t.” 

That got him a shrug in reply. “Better get used to the attention. Try and use it to your advantage.” Now what did that mean? “The Professor’s going to be watching, you know.” Goddess, did he. “If you keep practicing, I think she’ll be impressed.” As if she’d ever truly look at him like he dreamed she might...

“Then leave me alone to practice,” Dimitri said. “Please.”

Sylvain nodded and didn’t move. “Sure, I could do that. Or I could help you.”

“Help me?” Once again Dimitri slowed to a stop in the middle of a form.

“Yeah.” Sylvain gestured vaguely at him. “You’d have an easier time finding the steps if you had a partner. You’re not getting the full experience right now.”

It wasn’t just a boast. Dimitri supposed that Sylvain probably did know what he was talking about. He’d had plenty of experience with the finer arts of theater and music and dancing, far more than Dimitri had ever been allowed or had time for outside of training.

But still. While he trusted Sylvain with his life, he was less certain about trusting him with his dignity. “I’m not going to fall for a trick,” he said. “When you had me court a woman in town…”

Another laugh. “That wasn’t me, that was all you.”

He couldn’t deny that. “All right,” Dimitri said. “Just for a while.”

“Right choice.” Sylvain strode forward. “Let me see that…” He took the book of steps from Dimitri’s hand and flipped through it, frowning. “No wonder you’re having trouble, these diagrams are a total mess. Let me show you.”

Still a little unsure that he wasn’t being led into a trap (he shouldn’t doubt his friends, and yet…), Dimitri held out his hands. Sylvain utterly ignored that to reach for Dimitri’s shoulder and hip and guide him into the proper posture. 

“Here, and then there, and turn a little to keep the motion smooth…”

They continued like that, step after step, Dimitri trying to commit each to memory as Sylvain gently moved him through the forms. For someone so notoriously tactile, Sylvain was remarkably adept at keeping his hands off anywhere Dimitri didn’t want him. They ran through the sequence twice together, then Sylvain stepped back to watch Dimitri attempt it himself.

It didn’t go well. Dimitri barely got halfway through before fumbling it by stepping out of time. He quickly regained the beat, but even before he finished, he knew he’d done poorly.

“Try it again,” Sylvain said, untroubled. “Move like you’re directing magic, not like you’re impaling something.” Dimitri had no experience with magic himself, but he’d watched Mercedes and Annette often enough to know what that looked like, the elegant yet forceful motions that could cast spiraling bolts of light and wind far across the battlefield. 

He took a breath and tried again, this time tempering the motions, keeping his instincts in check. Steady, fluid gestures instead of sharp ones, power coming from the shifting shape of his body and not the tip of a weapon or the muscle behind it.

“There, now you’ve got it.” Sylvain smiled. “Looking good, Your Highness.” The praise caught him unaware, something warm and good. He’d practice these steps all night if it meant the Professor and his friends might think the same. 

They continued, with Dimitri repeating each exercise until Sylvain was satisfied before moving on to the next. Dancing took a lot more strength than he’d expected. By the time Sylvain proclaimed the lesson over, he was breathing hard and beginning to sweat despite the growing cold, just as if he’d been running training drills.

The nightly bells rang out over the grounds, calling monks to late prayers and warning students to head to their rooms. 

Sylvain threw Dimitri’s coat to him. “We should get back before Seteth yells at us for breaking curfew.”

“He would not scold you if you didn’t stay out late in town so often,” Dimitri reminded him. “I’ve told you multiple times-”

Sylvain groaned. “Don’t lecture me, all right? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

There hadn’t been a deal, but Dimitri let it go anyway. It was only fair, after Sylvain had spent so long assisting him.

They’d reached the dorms when Sylvain turned to him again. “There’s one more thing I should tell you.”

“What is it?”

A dangerous smile. “I think that’s the women’s costume.”

***

It was, and there was no time left to have a new one made. 

“An unfortunate miscommunication, it seems,” Manuela explained, looking rather unapologetic. 

“It’s all right. I won’t trouble anyone about it,” Dimitri said. He’d already resigned himself to Sylvain’s teasing. Besides, Dimitri doubted the men’s version of the outfit could be much better or worse then what he’d already worn. He wondered vaguely if this had been intentional, some sort of joke. Perhaps Catherine, who’d been in charge of acquiring the uniforms, thought it would be amusing to remind him of the time she’d mistaken him for a girl. It wouldn’t matter, in the end. His performance was all that mattered. 

Dimitri practiced with Sylvain again later that week. To his relief, Sylvain said nothing more about the costume. Not directly, at least. There were a few raised eyebrows and several comments about how he could no doubt charm any partner he wished, but Sylvain had a talent for never pushing it too far past what Dimitri would tolerate from him. 

He wasn’t the only one who wanted to help. Mercedes approached him outside the classroom not long after that. “Dimitri! I hear you’ve been practicing for the competition. I would love to watch you. Or help you practice! Only if you’re comfortable with that, of course.” 

If it hadn’t been her, he might have found some reason to refuse, but somehow he felt he could allow her to see him fumble his steps. She had a way of putting everyone around her at ease, and Dimitri was no exception. 

They met after dinner in the courtyard where the Professor sometimes invited students for tea. It was a more public space than Dimitri would have chosen himself, but there weren’t many people around at this hour, not when they could study in the warmth of the library instead. Mercedes stood up from the table when he entered.

“You look lovely!” she exclaimed. “The Professor made the right choice.” And he knew that was entirely honest. She meant it, though he couldn’t imagine how she might like the sight of him in such incongruous clothing. 

“I- thank you,” he said, searching for words. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever feel right, but as long as I do not look a complete fool, it is all I can ask.”

“You shouldn’t worry so much about it, Dimitri. I’m sure everyone will enjoy the competition!” She spun around, shawl and skirt twirling elegantly. “I’m afraid I don’t know a great number of dances, but we could still have a good time. Let’s get started!” She leaned forward without warning and grabbed his hands in hers. For one shocked moment, he froze, certain she would change her mind, turn away...

She pulled away, frowning. His heart sank. And then she said, “Does it hurt your hands when I touch them?”

He shook his head. “Oh- no, it’s fine. I’m sorry I worried you.”

“You don’t seem to like it very much. I thought you might be in pain.”

He sighed, resisted the need to rub his wrists. “No, it’s not that. I simply…” He turned his hands over, ran his thumbs over the thick, dark scars, feeling the ghosts of bandages and ointments and far too many eyes. “These scars are from Duscur. They set the village aflame… I tried to stop it, but...” He shivered, darkness threatening behind his eyes. Duscur, where everyone he loved had been taken from him. Where he had failed to prevent the carnage that had destroyed so many lives.

Mercedes, ever understanding, nodded. “And it reminds you of the pain you suffered then.” She reached out, unafraid, and took his hand. Slowly, he was able to come back to the present. They stood like that for a while in silence, while he breathed steadily and fought to think of anything but the past. 

At last Mercedes tilted her head, thoughtful. “Would you rather cover them? Not that you need to, of course. Anyone who judges you for that should be ashamed of themselves. But if it makes you more comfortable, I could gladly sew some gloves for you. A dark blue, perhaps, to match the skirt. That would look very nice, wouldn’t you agree?”

He wanted to, he desperately wanted to, but he couldn’t put her to all that work just to appease his own childish insecurities. “I would much rather have gloves. But I won’t make you do that.”

Mercedes smiled. “Oh no, I’d be delighted to help!”

And how could he refuse that? “Thank you. I’m truly grateful for it.”

When she reached for him again, he didn’t hesitate under her touch.

Mercedes hummed old Adrestian songs as they danced though set after set, some that Sylvain had taught him, and some that had no name or pedigree to them but felt no less refined. For a short while, there was nothing in the world but his steps and her gentle smile, a peace in which he could forget what awaited him. 

It was only when they were done that Dimitri remembered the competition was a solo dance.

***

On the day of the contest, Dimitri offered to help in clearing the tables from the reception hall, but the knights refused to let any students inside before it was time for the competition. 

He would have appreciated the distraction. This was supposed to be something fun for the students, a break from lessons, a taste of the ball ahead of them. But when the time came, Dimitri just wanted it to be over. Wanted to go back to his room and take off the ridiculous costume and spar with Felix until he was too tired to think. At least then he might be able to forget the feeling of everyone’s eyes on his skin, of the delicate motions that still felt unnatural and strange even after so many long practice sessions. 

Almost all of the students and teachers were there, some more interested than others. Hubert and Felix especially looked rather bored with the entire thing. From the celebratory noise coming from the Golden Deer, a stranger might have thought Hilda had already won. Professor Byleth must be somewhere, Dimitri thought, but there was no time to find her before Alois called the room to attention.

Alois was certainly enjoying himself, at least, calling out encouragement to the competitors before each stepped on stage to perform. The performance itself went by in a blur of music and counting beats in his head and prayers that he would remember each step, remember not to be too stiff, to flourish the sashes just right, like Sylvain had shown him. 

Finally, finally, it was done, and the judges’ votes were cast, and it was time for the final verdict.

“And the winner of this year’s White Heron Cup is…” Alois rumbled, building up the moment, “Dorothea, of the Black Eagles!”

Most of the Eagles cheered politely while Caspar whooped in joy and punched the air. “Yes! Go Dorothea! I knew you’d beat them!”

Hilda pouted. “Awww, I wanted to win! At least it was fun.” She stuck her tongue out but congratulated Dorothea without any bitterness.

“You performed splendidly,” Dimitri told Dorothea. “I’m honored to be allowed to see it.”

Her stage-perfect smile didn’t falter while she peered at him for a few moments as if looking for a lie. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. “You did pretty well yourself, Your Highness,” she said. “I think you’re going to have a lot of people looking for you at the ball.”

He didn’t want to think about the ball yet. He’d failed. Unsurprisingly. He’d always known he wasn’t suited to dancing, so that wasn’t what troubled him. But he’d let the Lions down, and he’d have to face that. He risked a glance at his assembled classmates. Somehow, they were all still smiling at him as they clapped politely for Dorothea. Dedue nodded, proud and approving, as if Dimitri had won after all. Mercedes beamed. Annette waved cheerfully when he caught her eye. Sylvain whispered something to her, grinning, and she laughed at the joke. Dimitri wondered what it was. 

“Good work, everyone,” Shamir called. She sighed, as if judging the contestants had been an arduous task. “Now that we’re done with this foolishness, I’m going to get back to my mission.”

“Aw, Shamir, you should stay a while!” Catherine urged, sweeping forward to lean on Shamir’s shoulder. “Have some treats. I hear there’s going to be wine later too.”

“Yes!” Alois boomed. “Stay a while and celebrate!”

Shamir grumbled again but agreed, to Catherine’s great delight. She pulled Shamir towards one of the tables of food, her hearty laugh echoing around the hall. Dorothea flitted off to Edelgard’s side, Hilda towards the Deer. 

“Your Highness?” Dimitri glanced down to find Annette standing at his elbow with a wide grin and a plate of peach pie. “Do you want some? Mercie and I made it for the competitors.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t need to do that. I know I’ve failed you.”

“Because you lost? Why does that matter? You did really well! Besides, everybody already knew Dorothea was going to win.”

She was probably right. It would be arrogant in the extreme to believe he might best a trained performer after a mere few weeks of practice. Annette held out the plate again, and this time he accepted it, along with the dainty fork he had to make sure not to bend. He cut into it and took a bite, careful to keep any crumbs off of the fine gloves Mercedes had made for him. He couldn’t taste any of it, of course, but the crust was pleasantly flaky with a bit of crunch from a dusting of sugar, and the fruit was soft and still warm underneath, smelling of summer and sweetness. 

Annette watched him eat. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very good,” he said, certain it was true even if he couldn’t be sure for himself. “Thank you.”

It was hard to feel low when faced with that sweet smile. “You shouldn’t feel bad about it! I really liked watching you. So did Mercie, and everybody else. And Felix, even if he won’t admit it. I’m extra excited for the ball now.”

At least at the ball he could be fully dressed. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as unpleasant as he’d feared. 

“I’ve been thinking…” Annette trailed off, waiting for permission. How many times had Dimitri told the others they could speak freely to him? 

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Well…” She bounced on her feet. “I know what it’s like to want to do everything perfectly. But I’m starting to think it’s better to just try your best and not get so hung up on one thing that you walk into barrels or leave the stove burning.” She giggled. “Uh, well, that part probably doesn’t apply to you!”

Dimitri nodded. “But I see your meaning. Thank you, Annette.”

“You can ask me for help any time. I’m your girl!” She stood up on her toes to peer around him. “Oh! That’s the Professor coming. I should go, I’ll see you later!”

She darted off before he could speak, leaving Byleth a clear path. Dimitri set the plate with the half-finished slice of pie down on the nearest table and tried to prepare himself to speak to Byleth. For the thousandth time he wished he was better at reading her face. She had a lot more expression than most people noticed, but there were many, many times when her inner thoughts remained an utter mystery to him. Not that he should believe himself to have a right to them, of course. 

“Dimitri. Well done.”

“Professor.” He bowed in apology, setting the costume jingling. “I’m truly sorry to have disappointed you.”

“You haven’t,” she said with her characteristic bluntness. “It was never about winning the competition. I didn't choose you because I wanted a prize.”

“But then… if I may ask... why?” Why him, instead of someone who might have brought them to victory?

“Your fighting style was becoming too rigid. That’s a bad thing in combat. I’ve seen mercs die because they relied on the same tactics one too many times.” The expression in her eyes reminded him of her father. She was as much a leader as he was, even if she had no title or medals to prove it. “Dancing is different enough from your usual style that I thought it might give you some perspective on varying your approach.” 

That… made a lot of sense. “You could have said so directly,” he told her. “I wouldn’t have been offended. I want to learn all I can about combat and strategy so that I can protect the Kingdom’s people from evil.” And destroy those who had taken his family from him. 

“I know. But this proved very effective.” 

So he had pleased her after all? The thought brought a rush of relief. “I’m glad. I... could continue training in this manner, if you believe it would help.” If it meant she would be proud of him, if it meant he could see her smile again, he would.

She nodded. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Professor…” he ventured, before he could think better of it. “Would you like to dance? If not now, then at the ball?” What was he thinking, he shouldn’t dare to demand her attention...

“I want to, but I don’t know how,” she said. “Seteth told me I should learn before the ball, but I haven’t had time.” She studied him a moment, unreadable, once again giving him the sense she could see right through him. “Could you teach me?”

His heart lifted. There was only one answer to give. “I will be honored to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sothis is absolutely yelling DO IT, DO IT YOU FOOL in Byleth’s head right now.  
> Thanks so much to the prompter for the idea! This was a lot of fun to write. I hope I did it justice!


End file.
